


Sex, Lies, and Set-ups

by shadowen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asexual Phil Coulson, Deaf Clint Barton, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family, M/M, Matchmaking, Sharing a Bed, Shovel Talk, everyone is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Clint did was tell one white lie. Everything else was totally not his fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was entirely darkmagyk's idea, so please direct all animosity and praise to her. Infinite thanks to sabinelagrande and bendingwind for the beta and to hoosierbitch for cheerleading.

“You told your brother _what_?”

Clint slid down in the passenger seat. “I’m really really _really_ sorry. I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“So you _accidentally_ mentioned that you were sleeping with a superior officer?” Coulson said tensely. “Which, I might add, is very much against protocol.”

“I didn’t... I mean, it wasn’t like...” Clint ran his hands over his face. “Look, he kept asking if I had a girlfriend, okay? He was giving me a hard time, and I got sick of it. So I told him I was gay, because I thought that would shut him up.”

“No such luck, I take it.”

“Yeah, not so much,” Clint sighed. “So he started asking about guys, and he just wouldn’t fucking stop.”

“So you invented a relationship to derail him,” Coulson said, surprisingly calm. “What I don’t understand is why you couldn’t also invent a boyfriend, instead of dragging me into it.”

“He wanted details. I panicked.”

“You panicked.”

“Yes.”

Coulson gave him a hard look. “You’re trained to resist interrogation and torture, but your brother asked about your personal life and you _panicked_?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Okay, you know how I get when I get stuck on something? With the poking and the wheedling and the setting things on fire?”

“You said that was an accident.”

“It was. Mostly. Anyway. Barney is...” Clint foundered for an explanation. “He’s like me, but without the self-awareness and personal skills.” Coulson raised an eyebrow. “Shut up. The point is...” Clint sighed again and sat up in the seat. “He’s not a bad guy, y’know? He means well, he’s just... kind of an asshole. Me and him talking like this, it’s weird and awkward and, like, something normal people do, and when I told him I was seeing somebody, it was like everything got easier. Like me telling him something about my life was, I dunno, letting him in, showing that I trust him.”

“By lying to him.” There was no anger or accusation in Coulson’s tone, but Clint still flinched.

“Yeah, well, I’m kind of an asshole, too,” he admitted. “Whatever. I’ll tell him we broke up, or something. Just thought you should know before we get there.”

After a moment of excruciating silence in which Clint seriously considered jumping out of the moving car, Coulson asked, “What have you told him?”

“Not much. Nothing classified,” Clint assured him, but Coulson shook his head.

“No, I mean, about us. What have you told him?” At Clint’s confused look, Coulson explained, “If we’re going to maintain this cover, I need to know the whole story.”

Clint blinked slowly. “You’re serious. You’re actually gonna go along with this.”

“It’s only for a day, and this whole operation will go much more smoothly if I don’t have to convince your brother I’m on his side,” Coulson said evenly, and Clint had to admit it made sense.

“If you say so, sir. Just remember, you gotta pretend you actually _like_ me.”

Frowning, Coulson said, “I don’t think that will be the hard part.”

***

Generally speaking, Phil wasn’t easily surprised. He’d seen too much strangeness to be shocked and was too well-prepared to be caught off-guard. Even so, nothing in his life had ever left him more completely gobsmacked than receiving an affectionate, unprompted, full-body hug from Barney Barton.

“Man, it’s really great to meet you,” Barney said happily. To his brother, who had received a hug of his own, he added, “He looks cool. You didn’t say he was cool.”

Barton - Clint, who Phil couldn’t help but think of as the _real_ Barton - rolled his eyes. “That’s because he’s not.”

“I’d like to know what your basis for comparison is,” Phil said dryly, and Barton stuck out his tongue. Phil wondered if that was flirting or just Barton being... Barton. Should they be flirty? Phil just shook his head and turned back to Barney. “Is there somewhere we can talk? I’d like to go over a few details before the meet.”

Barney rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sure. I mean, my place is a couple blocks over, but, uh, I got a call from my friend. Says there’s something going on tonight, so there’s no meet ‘til tomorrow.”

The first little throb of a headache started at the base of Phil’s skull. A delay was neither catastrophic nor surprising, but he had a sinking feeling that this would just be the first of many hiccups. “In that case, we should find a place to stay and lay low until we c-”

“Aw, no, man, come on,” Barney cut him off. “You can stay with me. I got one of them, whadda ya call ‘em, sleeper sofas.”

The burgeoning headache was joined by an anticipatory pain in Phil’s back. Barton seemed to have the same thought. “No way, Barney, we can’t do that. We’ll get a motel or something.”

Barney made a face. “Trust me, you don’t wanna stay in any of the motels around here. Swear you get diseased just walking in the front door.”

“I’m sure we can find a place farther out,” Phil said, but Barney shook his head.

“Nope. No way I’m sending family off to some shit hole, not when I’ve got a perfectly good place of my own.” He turned to walk back up the street, waving them along behind him. “You need stuff? There’s a drugstore down the other way, if you wanna get toothbrushes or whatever.”

As they moved to follow, Phil gave Barton a questioning look. Barton shrugged and crooked his fingers in front of his face, signing _weird_ , and confirming Phil’s own sense that something felt off.

Phil gestured toward his eye with two fingers, then pointed at Barney. _Watch him._

Barton frowned, but he nodded and bumped Phil’s shoulder in reassurance. 

No good field agent ever left home without emergency supplies, so they were prepared for an overnight stay. What they weren’t prepared for was Barney’s effusive hospitality, which continued through the evening, including a tour of his one-bedroom apartment and an offer to make dinner.

“You can cook?” Barton asked, clearly stunned, and Barney reddened slightly.

“I mean, I got some frozen lasagna,” he said. “It’s not real cooking, but it’s food.”

Phil was about to suggest take-out when he caught something odd in Barney’s expression, just a strange flicker incongruent with the unabashed simplicity he presented. It was gone too fast to define, but it gave Phil pause. “Lasagna sounds good,” he said.

Barney beamed at him, and Barton shot him a curious smile. Phil just smiled back pleasantly and offered to help, just like a good boyfriend should, he assumed.

Despite the great potential for awkwardness, dinner was relaxed and pleasant. Barney carried most of the conversation and allowed Barton to direct him back on track when his rambling wandered. The meet would be at the same time and place, Barney informed them, just a day late. Phil gathered that the contact might be cagey, but the intel would be worth it. He also learned more than he ever wanted or needed to know about the spread of venereal disease among organized criminals in Boston.

Awkwardness only appeared hours later when Barney began struggling to unfold the sofa. Phil and Barton shared a single glance of amused resignation, and Phil found himself holding the look a little longer, trying to decipher the meaning of the faint furrows in Barton’s brow. Barton coughed and looked away, moving to help his brother with the uncooperative couch.

“Don’t have any sheets for it,” Barney explained, dumping an armful of blankets onto the thin mattress. The metal frame gave a squeak at the weight, and Phil raised an eyebrow. “It’s a lot more comfortable than it looks,” Barney insisted.

“It’ll be fine,” Barton said cheerfully. Phil could see the tension at the edges of Barton’s smile and set a soothing hand on his shoulder. Barton glanced briefly at Phil’s fingers, and the corners of his mouth tightened by a fraction.

Dropping his hand, Phil matched Barton’s false cheer ounce for ounce and said, “We’ve definitely slept in worse places.”

Barney gave them a bright grin and a wink. “Yeah, well, just don’t do too much _moving around_ , if you know what I mean. Don’t wanna wake the neighbors.”

It took two full seconds for the innuendo to click in Phil’s head, and it was only a lifetime of controlled reactions that kept his face from heating. Barton, on the other hand, had caught on right away and flushed scarlet, giving his brother an unamused punch in the arm as he walked by. 

“Seriously, though,” Barney went on, unconcerned. “It’s real squeaky, and I don’t wanna hear my baby brother getting busy in my living room.”

Barton put a hand over his eyes. “Oh my god, _please_ go away.”

“Sure, okay, I get it. Three’s a crowd.” Barney backed out of the room, hands spread, still wearing a shit-eating grin. “You guys have a good night, now.”

When the bedroom door shut behind him, Phil turned to Barton and said, “I’m beginning to get a picture of your formative years.”

“You have no idea,” Barton grumbled. “But you see...” He glance toward the closed door and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You see why I had to tell him something? He wouldn’t let it go.”

Phil nodded and dropped to the same volume. “The cover seems to be holding, so you don’t have anything to worry about.”

An unfamiliar expression crossed Barton’s face, but it passed too quickly for Phil to understand it. “I dunno. He’s acting kinda weird,” Barton said, shaking his head. “I think something’s up.”

“Something to do with the mission?” Phil asked. “Or something to do with us?”

“I dunno,” Barton said again. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow and try to get something.”

For one full, terrible second, Phil seriously considered suggesting that they might have sex in order to sell the cover and put Barney at ease, but that idea vanished with the realization that Barton might actually _agree_.

Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, the ache still building at the back of his head. Between Barney’s strange behavior and their manufactured romance, the last thing they needed was personal drama interfering in what should be a straightforward meeting with an informant. Phil was beginning to think, though, that nothing involving the Barton brothers could ever be straightforward.

***

A tendency to need sleep in dangerous places had given Clint a habit of sleeping very lightly and staying very still. The occasional necessity of sharing a bed with Coulson while in the field, however, had taught him to withstand a certain amount of restless jostling. Even so, he was surprised to awake, unmoved, to find Coulson curled close around him, breath stirring softly in Clint’s short hair.

The thin sunlight of early morning filtered in through the window and cast a few hazy shadows in the living room. Barney’s door was still closed, and, reaching down to touch the floor, Clint could feel the scattered vibrations of an apartment building just beginning to wake up. Moving slowly, he collected his hearing aids from their place beside the couch and slipped them on. Coulson gave a soft snort in his sleep and curled in tighter, tucking his knee into the back of Clint’s.

Clint sighed. Coulson’s sleep cuddling had been a source of teasing and amusement on a number of missions, but somehow, here, it had a different meaning. Clint wanted to fold himself into it and pretend that it was all true, that the pretty lie he’d told his brother bore some resemblance to reality, that there was any way in hell he could actually have _this_.

Coulson’s hand flexed against Clint’s side as he slid carefully out of the tangle of blankets, and he could almost pretend that Coulson was reaching for him, wanting to grasp the hem of his shirt and pull him gently back into bed. Clint shook the idea out of his head and padded silently into the kitchenette to make coffee.

Coulson joined him a few minutes later, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and stretching his neck. “You’re up early,” he mumbled through a yawn.

Clint shrugged. “Couldn’t get back to sleep. Did I wake you?”

“No, no. I slept like a rock.” Something must have shown in Clint’s face, because Coulson asked, “I was cuddling in my sleep again, wasn’t I?” Clint nodded, and Coulson closed his eyes wearily. “I’m genuinely surprised you haven’t punched me in the face for that.”

“Are you kidding? That’d be like punching a teddy bear.” Whatever longing Clint had felt on waking turned bitter with the taste of coffee on his tongue, and he swallowed it down without a thought. 

An extra day gave them time to do area recon before the meet, and Clint scrawled a quick note for Barney, telling him where they’d gone. Coulson left behind his suit in favor of slacks and a light sweater, still looking out of place in the low-rent neighborhood.

“I always did,” he answered, later, when Clint pointed it out. He looked around as if to orient himself, then pointed down one of the streets as the walked past. “I grew up about ten blocks that way.”

“No shit.” Clint could just picture it: Coulson as a scrawny kid in a button-down shirt and Buddy Holly glasses, cautiously navigating the mean streets of South Boston. “Feeling nostalgic?”

To Clint’s surprise, Coulson gave a bitter snort. “Not. At. All. Unless you’d like a tour of all the bridges I slept under.”

Clint blinked, immediately revising his assumptions. “Huh. I always figured you for the straight-laced type. Normal childhood, nice family, all that white picket fence crap,” he said, and Coulson laughed.

“People with normal childhoods don’t grow up to be SHIELD agents.” The flash of humor went out of his face as he added, “And my family wasn’t nice.”

The way he said it made something twist in Clint’s stomach. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean...”

“No, it’s okay.” He gave Clint a small smile. “Let’s just hope we don’t run into anyone I used to know.”

Clint grinned slyly. “Why? Should I be worried about angry exes attacking me on the street?”

“Hardly,” Coulson drawled, and Clint elbowed him. 

“Aw, come on. I bet you left behind a whole trail of broken hearts.”

“I broke a lot of things,” Coulson told him. “But believe me when I tell you that hearts weren’t one of them.”

From the open window of a slowly passing car, someone called, “Coulson?”

Beside him, Clint felt Coulson tense and murmur, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Someone we should worry about?” Clint asked quietly, still walking.

“Almost definitely.” Coulson kept pace beside him and didn’t look at the car.

“Just keep going,” Clint said. “He’ll figure he made a mistake.”

Coulson shook his head by a fraction of an inch. “If it’s who I think it is, we can’t r-”

“Cocksucker Coulson! Son of a bitch, that _is_ you!” the man shouted as the sleek, black sedan rolled to a stop. He climbed out and ambled toward them on the sidewalk, leaving the driver to sit double parked in the idling car.

“Maguire. Good to see you.” Coulson’s greeting sounded friendly enough, but Clint caught enough of a chill in it to know something was up. 

The guy was well-dressed in a way that suggested he’d only recently learned how. He was, however, practiced in the art of concealing a weapon, and Clint could only just make out the signs of a small gun in an inside pocket. When the guy - Maguire, apparently - pulled Coulson into an awkward hug, Clint fought to stop himself from stepping in and breaking both his well-dressed arms.

“You fucking asshole. The fuck are you doing here?” Maguire demanded cheerfully. Nodding at Clint, he asked, “And why’s your friend look like he’s sizing me up for a Colombian necktie?”

Coulson shot Clint a look, and Clint obediently schooled his face into a more neutral expression, though he didn’t take his eyes off their new companion.

Maguire eyed him right back. “Yeah. Down, boy.”

“This is Clint. Old army buddy,” Coulson explained smoothly. “He... just got back from a tour. Still a little twitchy.”

Clint folded his arms over his chest, deciding to stick with the scary silent type, and Maguire gave him a considering once-over.

“Fuck, man. Alright.” Giving Coulson a friendly slap on the arm, he said, “Hey, sorry to hear about your old man. How’s he doing?”

Coulson’s face went blank. “I really don’t know. We’re still not on the best of terms.”

Maguire shook his head, scowling like that was the most shameful thing he’d ever heard. “Un-fucking-believable,” he spat. “Your dad’s on his death bed, and you can’t be fucked to pick up the goddamn phone.”

The corners of Coulson’s mouth tightened. “That’s not...”

“Is it ‘cause you’re still a cocksucker?” Maguire cut him off, and Clint’s fist itched to punch this asshole in the mouth. “Or is it that fancy government job of yours? Tommy Creedy says you’re a spy, or some crap.”

“Tommy Creedy’s full of shit,” Phil said evenly. “It was good to see you, Maguire. Take care.”

As Coulson turned away, Maguire caught hold of his arm, and Clint had the edge of his knife pressed against Maguire’s side before anyone could blink.

“Hands off. Now,” he growled.

Maguire looked from Clint to Coulson with a tense grin. “Guess that answers the cocksucker question,” he drawled, but he let go of Coulson’s arm.

“Stand down,” Coulson ordered quietly, but Clint was looking intently over Maguire’s shoulder, watching the four men approaching slowly from different directions.

“Sir...”

“I see them. Three more on your six,” Coulson said. “Stand down. There’s too many civilians.”

Clint absolutely _burned_ to slice the smile right off Maguire’s face, but he settled for leaving a cut in the tacky shirt as he pulled away.

“Good boy. Nice doggy,” Maguire sneered. To Coulson, he said, “Why don’t you and your bitch get in the back seat, and we’ll go somewhere a little quieter.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea on your part,” Coulson said, and there was that scary calm Clint knew so well. “You know I work for the government, and, trust me, you don’t want to meet the people who will come looking if I disappear.”

Maguire made a face. “ _Disappear._ Don’t be such a fucking drama queen.” He waved a hand gesturing to the car. “Come on before I stop asking nicely.”

Clint exchanged a look with Coulson, a moment of silent communication, and, as one, they moved toward the car. Coulson slid into the backseat first, Clint close behind him. The car was in motion almost before the door was closed, and they jostled against each other as it sped away through the traffic.

Maguire turned around and threw a plastic shopping bag into Coulson’s lap. “Clothes off and in the bag, one at a time” he said. “You can leave your shorts on, but you’re gonna get frisked good, so don’t try hiding nothing.”

They glanced at each other. Coulson raised an eyebrow, and Clint sighed. As he tugged the t-shirt over his head, Clint grumbled, “Your old neighborhood sucks.”

Maguire and his gang were hardly the calibre of thug SHIELD usually dealt with, but he was connected to people a little higher up the food chain, people also tied to Barney’s mysterious contact. Whoever the higher-ups were, they’d been tipped that someone was about to talk and, apparently, had tasked the underlings with finding a name. They couldn’t tell what they didn’t know, though, and after a brief session of, frankly, amateur attempts at torture, Clint and Phil were left handcuffed, back-to-back, in their respective chairs inside an empty metal storage container.

“Your friend is an asshole,” Clint said, loudly enough to cover any rustling as Coulson passed him a small lock-pick that had been hidden... somewhere. Clint planned to ask, later.

Coulson’s reply came to him as small movements and vibrations through the places where their arms touched. Their captors might be amateurs, but they’d been smart enough to take Clint’s hearing aids, leaving him soundless and sightless in the sweltering box. They’d also broken Clint’s nose and two of Coulson’s fingers, which Clint planned to pay them back for, with interest.

“And why the hell is some random two-bit mobster asking about your dad’s health?” Clint went on. It was unlikely they were being watched or recorded, but Clint figured playing up the Loud Deaf Asshole angle couldn’t hurt. “I mean, you’ve got some weird friends, but still. Like that guy in Lithuania with the little unicorn statues. And the dominatrix in Tasmania. And that lady in Mexico City with the bootleg anime network. Seriously, where do you even meet these people?”

Coulson answered, but he might have been singing the alphabet, for all Clint could tell. Clint kept his movements small and quick as he worked on the cuffs and imagined that Coulson was telling him stories. About Maguire, about a childhood in Boston, about the anime in Mexico City, about anything; Clint didn’t care. Coulson knew that Clint couldn’t hear him, so maybe he was telling secrets, confessing a long-concealed love of Portuguese soap operas or a private passion for postage stamps. He wouldn’t say anything important, though, nothing that could give them away or compromise Barney and certainly nothing to do with how he might feel about Clint and their pretend romance.

Clint felt the _click_ as the lock gave way, and one of the cuffs slipped slipped off his wrist. _Fuck yeah._ Kicking his chair out of the way, he slid his hands carefully down Coulson’s arms, feeling for the cuffs in the dark. Coulson was still talking, and Clint didn’t allow himself to wonder desperately what he was saying.

Suddenly, somewhere outside, there was a loud gunshot. Then two, three, a clatter of gunfire, followed by abrupt, chilling silence.

“Shit.” Clint slipped the lockpick into place, his hands still and steady. “This would be a whole lot easier if I could see,” he grumbled. Or hear or smell or do anything but work quickly and try not to jostle Coulson’s broken fingers.

The lock had just shifted when there was a another gunshot, right outside and deafening, and the door was pushed up into its housing with a rattle.

In the sharp glare of the storage lot lights stood a woman, short and broad-shouldered, with a shotgun gripped carefully under her arm. She gave them both a quick look and called something over her shoulder.

Clint stood, putting himself between Coulson and the open door. There wasn’t much his nearly-naked ass could do against a shotgun, but he’d be damned if he was gonna go down easy.

From around the corner, Barney appeared, armed, to Clint’s relief, with a very familiar bow and quiver. He jogged to a stop and took in their state of undress with a raised eyebrow. Facing Clint, he said, _Uh, you guys need another minute alone?_

Clint rolled his eyes and went back to work on Coulson’s handcuffs. “Just tell me you brought a damn car,” he grumbled. “And that you’re gonna tell us what the hell is going on.”

Clint didn’t need to hear Coulson to know that whatever he said next was an emphatic agreement.

***

Barney, predictably, had the presence of mind to pack a bug-out bag for himself, but not to grab the two agent’s overnight bags in anticipation of their hasty escape. As a result, Barton’s back-up hearing aids, along with all of their gear and spare clothes, were still sitting idly under the squeaky sleeper sofa in Barney’s apartment, and Barton and Phil were wearing graciously loaned shirts from the depths of Barney’s bag. Phil’s was green Hawaiian print and had several suspicious stains on the hem.

Phil’s headache from the previous day returned in full force and brought along a few friends for good measure. The pain from his broken fingers was enough to make dark spots flash across his eyes, despite the unexpected gentleness as Barton carefully set and wrapped the injury. Phil gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe.

“So to recap,” Barton said, voice pitched just a little louder than normal, “the things you neglected to mention were, one, that your contact needed an actual extraction and didn’t ‘just want to talk’. Two, that the crime family in question _knew_ that someone was selling them out. Three, that your contact is an actual, by-blood _member_ of said family. Four, that the contact is also your fucking girlfriend...”

“Ex,” Barney and the woman said in unison, but Barton kept his eyes on Phil’s hand and didn’t catch it.

“Five, that the FBI agent currently investigating the targets is also drinking buddies with your girlfriend’s dad,” Barton went on.

“I have a name,” the woman muttered. She had been introduced to them as Tina.

“And she’s not my girlfriend,” Barney added.

Barton, Phil suspected, knew exactly what they were saying, but continued, “And, six, that the _last_ FBI agent on the case turned up in twelve shipping crates across four different states.” Barton glanced up to glare at his brother. “Six, Barney. That’s six _very_ important pieces of information.”

On the other side of the cheap motel room, Barney rolled his eyes. “Okay, Count Chocula. I get it. I’m sorry.” He waved his hand and waited until Barton looked back at him to say again, “I’m sorry. We didn’t know who to trust.”

“You could have trusted _me_ ,” Barton snapped. At odds with his anger, his touch on Phil’s hand was cautious and soft as he secured the makeshift splint and let go.

“And you woulda got your panties bunched and scrambled your spy buddies,” Barney growled back.

Phil tilted his head to get Barton’s attention and said, “If official channels are compromised, it makes sense to contain information as much as possible. Keeping the meet quiet and making it look like a personal visit would draw less attention.” Cutting his eyes at Barney, he added, “Not that I appreciate being lied to and manipulated.”

Beside Barney, Tina shrugged, “Got you here, didn’t it?”

“If by _here_ , you mean a disease-ridden motel, hiding from barely-organized criminals, wearing Mister Barton’s dirty laundry,” Phil replied icily, “then, yes, I’d say it definitely got us _here_.”

Tina scowled, and Barney crossed his arms, grumbling, “Gave you the shirt of my back.”

Phil thought he might have been more grateful if the shirt hadn’t smelled like the toilet of a cheap bar. "And it’s Von Count," he said evenly. "The count from _Sesame Street_ is Count von Count, not Count Chocula."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Barney groaned.

“That’s enough,” Barton said, tense and quiet. His broken nose had been hastily taped and the blood cleaned away, but his handsome face still looked battered and gaunt in a way that turned Phil’s stomach. He spoke deliberately, like he was getting the words right in his mouth before he said them. “It’s been a long, weird day, so what we’re gonna do is get some food, get some rest, call for extraction, and sit tight ‘til the white hats arrive.”

“We can’t do that,” Tina told him, frowning. “I mean, food sounds pretty damn good, but not the other thing, the extraction thing.”

Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, his headache building, even as Barton demanded, “And why the hell not?”

“Because that bullshit FBI agent, the one that’s drinking buddies with my old man?” she said. “Well, he’s got some drinking buddies of his own. At SHIELD.”

Phil and Barton gaped at her in stunned silence, then turned to each other.

“Well,” Barton said. “Shit.”

_Shit_.


	2. Chapter 2

Barring other options, the best course of action boiled down to _food_ , _sleep_ , and _drive to New York in the morning_ , so Phil, in his stained Hawaiian shirt, accompanied Barney to a take-out pizza parlor down the street. Phil thought they might be spotted, but Barney waved off his concerns.

“Me and Tina hooked up a while back, but it wasn’t anything. Far as her dad or anybody else knows, we haven’t seen each other in months,” he explained. Giving Phil a quick once-over, he added, “And you kinda look like a whole other person, without the suit.”

“So I’ve been told.” Unsurprising, too, since Phil didn’t exactly feel like himself. Even so, he did wonder how Maguire had been able to recognize him after so many years.

The pizza parlor was small, illuminated by fluorescent lights that struggled for life, and covered in an accumulation of grease that was probably older than the kid behind the counter who took their order with forced friendliness. There had been a place like this near Phil’s high school where his younger sister had worked. He remembered her coming home, late in the evening, the smell of oil and oregano following her as she walked through the living room.

He thought suddenly, for whatever reason, of his old room in his parents’ house, of the flimsy walls peppered with thumbtack holes, of the narrow window in its warped frame that let in gusts of fresh air and the smell of grass and hot tar in summer. He wondered how long they waited before clearing it out, packing his clothes into bags and his books into boxes for the St. Vincent de Paul donation drive, erasing all evidence that a son had ever lived there. Lizzy would have finally gotten her own room, at least.

Phil didn’t notice that an awkward silence had fallen until Barney broke it with a cough. “So, uh, I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to say that if you hurt my little brother, I’ll kill you.”

 _Oh. Right._ “I think we can skip that part, if you’d prefer.”

“Maybe. But, see, the thing is... the thing is I never got to say it before.” Barney stood with his arms crossed, not looking at Phil. “And I stood by while a lotta other people hurt him, so it seems a little, whadda ya call it, a little disingenuous to say it now.”

Phil frowned. He knew enough about Barton’s history to have an idea of just how much Barney had stood by for. “It’s really not necessary,” he said, a touch more coldly than he’d meant to. “I can guarantee I would never do anything to cause A- to cause Clint any harm, emotional or otherwise.” The nature of their relationship might be a lie, but that, at least, was the absolute truth.

Barney did look at him then, eyeing him with a familiar sharp glare. “You do, and I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life eating through a tube, but that’s not the point.”

“No?”

“The point isn’t just not to hurt him, the point’s to be good to him.” Barney’s stare softened, and he sighed. “He’s good, y’know? Got a good heart, no matter how much it’s been trampled on, and he’s _happy_. Got a job he believes in, friends he likes, a boyfriend he’s crazy about. Man, I never thought I’d get to see him like this, and it’s...”

Phil thought of Barton as he had been, newly recruited and nearly feral, all sharp edges and distrust and completely at odds with the bright, charming man who had made him coffee that morning. “I’m glad he’s happy. I want him to be happy.”

“Me, too,” Barney said, and there was no doubt that he meant it. “So, that’s it, I guess. Be good to him, make him happy, and I won’t introduce you to my shitkickers.”

For a second, Phil almost forgot that it wasn’t real, that he wasn’t actually charged with giving Barton the happiness he deserved, and the weight of that responsibility settled on him with surprising ease. Phil shook his head and shook away the warmth. “Listen, Barney, I don’t want to... It’s not really my place to tell you this, but I think you should know that I... or rather Clint... or, well, _we_ haven’t been completely honest with you.”

Barney frowned. “You mean about how you’re not really doing the nasty in your downtime?”

“I... what?”

“Yeah, you’d think Clint’d be a better liar, what with the spy thing, and all.” Barney shrugged. “Whatever. I kinda put him on the spot, so I don’t blame him for making something up.”

This, Phil thought, was the only possible way this day could have gotten stranger. “So... Alright, I’m confused. If you knew we weren’t involved, then why...” Phil gestured vaguely. “...all of this?”

“Because it’s true,” Barney said simply. “He’s got a good heart, and you oughta be good to him. Figure it’s a matter of time before you start fucking, so i thought I'd get the talk in now."

"Order for Brewer," the cashier called. Unnecessary, since the room was hardly six feet wide, and they were the only ones there.

Barney took the pizzas and swept out the door with a grin, leaving Phil gaping in his wake.

"A matter of time?" Phil repeated, following him out. “First of all, I’m his superior officer, so that would be entirely inappropriate, despite what he may have told you. And second, we’re not... I mean, there’s nothing... I’m not... _He’s_ not.”

“Oh, he is. Absolutely, over the moon, hearts in his eyes, one hundred percent,” Barney said. “Heart’s on his sleeve, right there for anybody to see. You’re just not looking right.”

Phil thought that he’d never learned to see properly, where hearts were concerned, but he didn’t say so.

When they got back to the motel, Tina was propped against the pillows on one bed, watching television, and Barton was curled up under the covers of the bed by the door, apparently asleep. He wasn’t, Phil knew, because Barton would never sleep alone in a room with someone he didn’t know, especially when he couldn’t hear, but he looked peaceful. Phil touched his foot gently and mouthed, “Food,” when Barton’s eyes cracked open to peer at him over the comforter.

Where dinner the previous night had been unexpectedly relaxed, this one was predictably tense. There was no need to discuss the plan, and no one but Barney seemed up for light conversation. When Phil asked about the intel Tina had promised, she shook her head and said she was holding onto it until she had a deal worked out. Barton kept his head down and only looked up whenever Phil gestured to get his attention.

As many times as he and Barton had shared a bed on missions, Phil felt uneasy when the time came to climb under the covers. He told himself that it was the strangeness of the mission and the persistent sense of mistrust as Tina volunteered to take first watch, but he was careful to keep on his side of the bed as he tossed and turned, unable to settle. After an hour of Phil's restlessness, Barton grumbled and rolled over, tucking an arm around Phil's waist and forcing him to be still.

Phil sighed and blinked himself awake the next morning, alone in the bed.

***

Clint was the last to take watch, and the dark city sky gave way to a watery dawn as he stared out through the motel curtains, deliberately not thinking about Coulson and his stupid cuddling and this stupid, batshit mission.

Breakfast was snack food and soda from the vending machine, which Barney dumped onto the bed with an expression of triumph. Phil handed Clint a root beer and a peanut bar and signed, _Could be worse._

Clint gave him a brief smile and signed back, _Could be potatoes._

On a mission in Kazakhstan, they and three other agents had been stranded in a safe house for two weeks past their scheduled extraction. Supplies had been low to begin with and had quickly dwindled to nothing but water and potatoes, which then made up the sole content of their meals until they were finally given the all clear. It took months after that before Clint could even eat french fries.

So, yeah, it could have been potatoes.

Something in the parking lot moved, quick but not careful, deliberate. Clint was up and moving before he could think, tackling Coulson off of the bed and onto the floor just as a spray of bullets shattered the window.

He knew there must be shouting, crashing, the loud clatter of gunfire, but, for Clint, it was all silence. Everything seemed to slow around him, and he could see each sharp gleam of light glinting off the broken glass, smell the sudden influx of cool air from outside, feel every scrape and callus as Coulson grabbed at his arm, trying to pull him back down as he dove for his bow and quiver under the bed.

The bullets paused and Clint fired. Three seconds, four arrows, four figures falling to the blacktop and clutching four injuries.

"Four down," he said.

There was scrambling behind him, and Coulson appeared at his side, holding his hands where Clint could see without looking away from the parking lot. _More?_

"Don't see any. Break for the car. I'll cover you from here."

Coulson nodded and turned to pass the order on to Barney and Tina. Standing, he gave Clint's shoulder a touch that lasted just a little too long. Clint just shook it off and drew his arrow a little further back.

They made it to the car, they made it out of the parking lot, and they made it onto the goddamn road before somebody started shooting at them.

Early morning traffic was picking up, and Coulson swerved wildly between the cars as Clint eased himself out of the back window on the driver’s side and took aim at their pursuit. Red station wagon, driver and one passenger, handgun. Coulson sideswiped a minivan, and Clint lost his line of sight. When the station wagon came back into view, he fired.

"Yes!" he shouted as the front tire blew out. He acted like this stuff was easy, but shooting a moving vehicle from another moving vehicle was pretty damn impressive. "Take that, assholes!"

There was a tug on his pants leg, and he looked down to see Barney, in the back seat, gesturing frantically for him to get back in the car. He saw the black sedan a second before the shot came; it had been trailing them from ahead, out of Clint's vision, and he realized his mistake only in time to see where the bullet came from as it tore through his shoulder.

How he managed to hold onto his bow was just as mysterious as how Barney managed to pull him into the car before he fell, but, the next thing Clint knew, he was propped against the inside of the door with Barney's hands pressing against his shoulder.

"Fine. I'm fine. Just get us out of here," he sputtered. There was blood on his face, bitter in the corner of his mouth. He could see Coulson turning, talking, trying to look at him. "I'm fine," he said again. "Just fucking drive."

Barney was just saying, _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This is so fucked,_ over and over.

Lifting his good arm, Clint punched him in the shoulder. "Welcome to the pro league, big brother."

Barney gave him a look that clearly expressed just how much of an asshole he thought Clint was, and Clint grinned, which was probably less than reassuring with blood on his teeth.

***

Phil had once driven a sports car through Hong Kong, under enemy fire, with a priority civilian asset in the passenger seat and kill codes for an imminent bio-terrorist attack on a flash drive in his pocket. He remembered it being kind of fun.

This, fighting his way through suburban Boston, being shot at by people he'd known as kids, with Barton injured in the backseat... This was a fucking nightmare.

"This is Coulson, authorization victor india six one nine. I need an emergency extraction now. I have an agent down and civilians in the line of fire.”

Tina was in the passenger seat with her shotgun levelled through the window, but the other cars moving around them made it hard to get a clean shot. Phil was just trying to get them as far from their pursuers as possible.

“Agent Coulson, we have a jet en route to your location. ETA ten minutes. ”

“I’m in a high-speed shoot-out on a busy interstate with an injured asset. Get here in five,” he snapped and let the phone drop into his lap, veering into an opening to the left just as the black sedan reappeared to the right.

Shots pinged the hood of the car, and Tina yelped, getting off a shot of her own. From the back, Barney maintained his litany of, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Barton just kept saying, “Fine. I’m fine,” in a way that made Phil’s stomach cold.

“There’s an arrow in the quiver with a yellow nock,” Phil told Barney with all the calm authority he could muster. “You need to get it out and jab Clint in the chest.”

“What?”

“Just do it,” Phil barked. “Right below the wound, just enough to activate it, and keep your h-” A hail of bullets hit the passenger door, and Phil braked to put an SUV between them and the sedan. “Keep your hand as far from the tip as you can.”

“Fuck,” Barney grumbled as he shifted around to get the arrow. There was a pop and a wet hiss, and Barton howled in pain as Barney yelped, “Jesus Christ, what the fuck?”

The fast-hardening putty from the trick arrow would staunch the bleeding and keep any broken bones from getting worse, and Phil had hoped the shock of it would make Barton pass out. No such luck, apparently, as Barton gave an agonized groan. “Jesus fucking son of a bitch. You asshole.”

Whether the asshole was aimed at Phil or Barney, Phil didn’t care to ask. “Okay, now get the one with the grey nock.”

“What am I supposed to do with that one?” Barney demanded. “Stab him in the eye?”

“For fuck’s sake, shut up and do what he says!” Tina shouted.

“Okay! Fine. Fuck you. Fuck this. Fuck SHIELD and the mob and the FBI and this whole fucking mess. Now what do you want me to do with this goddamn arrow?”

“Shoot the driver,” Phil told him, and Barney sputtered. “Please, for the love of god, tell me you know how to shoot.”

There was a pause, as if it took a moment for all the disparate stimuli to galvanize into a single purpose, then Barney growled, “You’re damn fucking right, I know how to shoot.”

The window had been cracked by gunfire, and Barney kicked it out before taking aim. Phil sped up, trying to give him a clear line to the black sedan, and, with a flicker of satisfaction, Phil caught a glimpse of Maguire in the front passenger seat just as the arrow struck home and exploded in a cloud of thick, black smoke.

The ensuing chaos brought the sedan to a standstill, and Phil kept his foot on the gas, putting as much distance as he could between them until, minutes later, a quinjet came speeding toward them out of the clouds.

Getting all of the deals, arrests, and details of this disaster sorted was a looming nightmare, but Phil flatly refused to address any of it until he had seen Barton to medical and been assured that someone would call him with an update. One of the nurses tried to wrangle him into having his hand looked at, but he escaped by virtue of an irate phone call from the SHIELD liaison to the FBI.

Tina’s intel turned out to be surveillance and financial records going back almost a decade and would be enough to put two thirds of the family’s major players away for a good long time.

“You’ve been planning this for a while,” Phil remarked, but Tina just shrugged. Her reasons were her own, he supposed, and he let the matter rest as she was whisked away into protective custody and a relocation program.

Barney, after providing a thorough and colorful statement about his involvement in the affair, was given temporary quarters on the base and promised a relocation deal of his own. As Phil walked him to his bunk, Barney said lightly, “So that turned out alright.”

Phil considered the situation and admitted, “Well, no one died, property damage was minimal, and a number of bad people are being brought to justice. So, yes, I guess it did.”

“And you got a little romance started, so that’s good,” Barney prompted hopefully. At Phil’s look, he rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on! After all that, you’re not even gonna give it a shot?”

“No, for all of the reasons I enumerated last night, and a few more, besides” Phil explained patiently. His headache was returning with a vengeance.

Barney made a face. “Which reasons? You mean about how it’s inappropriate, and you’re not into each other?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s definitely into you, so you can scratch that off. And it might be inappropriate, but it’s not against the rules,” he went on. “Unless Clint was lying about that, too, but I figure he probably just told the one lie, about you being together. I’m betting everything else was true.”

Phil had to wonder just what Barton had told his brother to have made him so certain. “Be that as it may, and however much I might care about him as a friend, I’m just not... It’s just not possible.”

Barney frowned. “Wait, are you not into dudes? ‘Cause I’m not the sharpest, but there’s no way I misread that that bad.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just...” Phil resisted the urge to sigh. “It’s complicated.”

“So un-fucking-complicate it,” Barney said with surprising heat. “This is my baby brother’s heart we’re talking about, so either give him a chance or cut him loose.”

Phil blinked. He couldn’t think of a single way for this mess to end in anything but tears, but the truth had to be better than letting Barton string himself up on an empty hope. “I... I’ll talk to him.”

Barney nodded, apparently satisfied, and they walked in silence to the temporary quarters.

On the way back to his office, Phil’s phone - his new phone, its predecessor having been taken by Maguire and his goon squad - buzzed with a text from Barton.

where are you? won’t let me leave w good drugs unless you sign me out

Phil sighed and responded, on my way. stay there. be nice to the nurses.

There was no reply, presumably because the medical staff had confiscated whatever phone Barton was using and given him the aforementioned good drugs, if only to sedate him into compliance. Phil calmly told himself that he was going to medical to get his broken fingers set and that taking care of Barton was a secondary concern, but another part of his brain cheerfully called bullshit, leaving him with a tangle of confusion and a worsening headache.

Maybe they’d give him the good drugs, too.

***

Nine times out of ten, Clint would take the pain, however bad it was, over the medications that made him feel distant and tired and powerless. That one tenth of the time, though, when he was banged up too badly and Coulson was there to look out for him, Clint kind of liked being high.

He lost a few minutes between getting dumped into a wheelchair and arriving at his quarters, but his bunk was soft and Coulson was talking to him, so he wasn’t especially bothered.

“...had to go and get yourself shot, as if getting your nose broken again wasn’t enough” Coulson was grumbling. The spare hearing aids Clint had been given were a little staticky, but the affection in Coulson’s voice was clear as a bell.

“Did good, though, didn’t I?” Clint murmured. Everything felt sweet and far-off. Except Coulson. Coulson was right here, nice and close.

“You did good,” Coulson assured him gently. “You were brilliant.”

“D’you see that shot? That was great. Did you see it?” He really hoped Coulson had seen that shot. It had been a great shot.

“I saw it. It was perfect. You did good,” Coulson said again, and something bright and happy bubbled up in Clint’s chest. The feeling vanished as Coulson started to pull away, and Clint fumbled for his hand.

“No, wait. Where are you going? You’re s’posed to... to something.” The doctors had given very specific instructions, but Clint only vaguely remembered them. “I’m not s’posed to be by myself, and you promised, so you gotta stay. You promised. Did you promise?”

“Ssh, it’s okay. I promised,” Coulson soothed, smoothing down Clint’s hair. “I’m just going to get a chair, okay?”

“No. No, you gotta stay.” Clint had a grip on Coulson’s hand, and letting go seemed like a really dumb thing to do. He tugged down toward the bed. “C’mon. Stay here. Right here.”

Coulson sighed, but he kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed with Clint, careful not to bump any injuries and angling so that Clint could rest against him but still see his face. Clint could hear well enough to get by, but he still liked to see Coulson’s face when he talked.

“Better?” Coulson asked, and Clint nodded, yawning. “Do you want me to stay until you’re asleep?”

“Want you to talk to me,” Clint mumbled. He felt warm and comfy and safe enough to poke at the questions in his head. “How come you don’t wanna go home? Said you got family, but they’re not nice and you don’t wanna see ‘em. Gotta be something.”

Coulson froze, and, somewhere in the rational part of Clint’s head, he knew that absolutely nothing about his behavior was in any way okay. Before the rest of him could catch up and apologize, though, Coulson said quietly, “I don’t want to go home because Boston isn’t my home. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

Clint knew something about home not being home, but there wasn’t much he could say that Coulson didn’t already know. So he just burrowed a little deeper into the warmth of Coulson’s side and waited.

After a moment, Coulson told him, “When I was seventeen, my dad caught me with another boy and threw me out of the house. As in, physically tossed me out of the front door and into a snow bank. I had to walk a quarter mile with no shoes on to get to a friend’s house.”

Through the haze of medication, Clint felt a stab of rage. “Fucking asshole.”

Coulson didn’t dispute the observation. “I spent a few months... Well, once word got around, there weren’t a lot of people in the neighborhood who wanted me on their couches, so I spent a lot of time sleeping on park benches and...”

“And under bridges.” Clint could almost smell the foetid water, feel the bugs on his skin. He shuddered and shut the memory away.

“The day I turned eighteen, I enlisted,” Coulson went on. “My older sister tried to contact me, but... she didn’t have anything to say that I wanted to hear. Then I joined the Rangers, then SHIELD, and I thought there was no way they could find me, even if they wanted to. Until a few weeks ago, when I got a letter from my mom saying that my dad was sick and they wanted to hear from me.”

“Did you? D’you call ‘em?” Clint hoped he had and that his mom and dad had said they loved him and they missed him and they were proud of him, because Coulson should have a mom and dad that said that stuff.

“I did. Mom explained about the cancer and how much time dad had left, and she said that... that she hoped I was doing well and asked if I was married or...” Coulson shook his head, sighing. “Well, she wanted to know if anything had changed, if I had changed, and I had to tell her that it hadn’t. So she wished me all the best and said it would probably be better if I didn’t come home for the funeral.”

Clint never claimed to be an expert on how families were supposed to work, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t it. And any family that didn’t want Coulson in it was obviously crap, anyway. He tried to say as much, but it came out something like, “‘S not good family. Dunno wouldn’t want some like you. So great.”

Coulson laughed. Clint liked that sound. It was a good sound. “Well, thanks for the sentiment, at least.”

Clint had something to say to that, too, but he was very warm and comfortable and words were hard.

He woke up the next day with a dry mouth and a fuzzy head and aching in his everything, and he had to rifle through the bedclothes to find the hearing aids that had fallen off in the night. Coulson was gone, and, if Clint’s memory of the night before was anything close to accurate, Coulson was probably gone gone, never to be appear in Clint’s life again. Clint buried his face in his pillow before he remembered, oh yeah, broken nose, and rolled over with a loud groan.

It took longer than he cared to admit before he saw the note on the nightstand, along with a glass of water and a bottle of pills.

Take ONE. Finish your paperwork. (Forms are in your email.) Take ONE MORE and go back to sleep. Call if need anything.

ONE and ONE MORE were triple underlined, and a glance at the bottle confirmed that, yes, this was the good stuff and, yes, Clint really had been as high as he remembered. The note wasn’t signed, but no one besides Coulson had ever shown as much concern for Clint’s well-being or had unrestricted access to his room.

Clint sighed, knocked back a pill and the glass of water, and reached for his tablet. Apparently, he had paperwork to do.

***

Phil should have gone home, could have gone home, would have been well within his rights to go home to his apartment and get eight hours of sleep in his own bed. The only reason he didn’t was because he couldn’t stand the idea of not being immediately available if Barton needed him. It was irrational and ridiculous, and Phil spent the day alternating between irritation at himself and irritation at the bureaucratic shitstorm he still had to deal with.

Also, his hand ached, and his head ached. If there was a more pitiful creature on earth than himself, at that moment, Phil didn’t know what it was.

A mollusk, maybe. Mollusks were pretty pathetic.

In his distraction, Phil had lost track of the day by the time there was a light knock, and Barton’s head appeared around the door.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Hi. Come in,” Phil faltered for a moment. “Wait. No. You should be asleep.”

Barton rubbed at the back of neck, oddly reminiscent of his brother. The bruising around his nose made his smile seem faded. “Yeah. Thought I’d come turn in my paperwork, y’know. Check in.” He made an abortive gesture back toward the door. “I can leave if y-”

“No!” Phil said, too quickly and too loudly, and Barton gave him an odd look. “I mean... Thank you. Sit down. Please”

Barton raised an eyebrow as he pulled up the extra office chair. “You feeling okay, sir?”

Phil pressed his thumbs against his temples and sighed, “I’m fine, just... tired.”

To his surprise, Barton flinched. “Yeah. Sorry I ate up your night.”

“What? No. No, I slept with you. I mean, I slept in the...” Phil scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning, and Barton laughed. “I should sleep.”

“Yeah, you should,” Barton agreed. He seemed about to say something else, then decided against it and stood. “Guess I’ll get outta your hair, then.”

“Wait. Wait, I want to... to talk to you. About something.” That wasn’t true. Phil didn’t want to have this conversation, now or ever again for the rest of his life, but there were a lot of things that needed to be said.

Barton sank slowly back into the chair with a dubious look. “You sure? You don’t look like you’re up for a real serious discussion.”

“Well, neither were you, last night, so I suppose we’ll be even,” Phil said, and Barton made a face. “Do you even remember us talking last night?”

Barton’s expression made it clear that, for a second, he thought very seriously about lying. “Yeah. I was pretty out of it, but I remember,” he admitted. “I’m sorry I asked all that personal stuff, but, y’know, thanks. For telling me.”

“I think you’re probably the third person I’ve ever told about that,” Phil said, and he gave himself a moment to consider the meaning in that. “The other thing I should probably tell you is that Barney knew you were lying about us.”

“Jesus christ, of course he did. That asshole.” Barton’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. What did he say? Did he say something to you?”

“He said...” _Either give him a chance or cut him loose_. “He said he thought you might have... genuine feelings for me.”

The particular shade of red that rose on Barton’s face was unnatural and violent. “That’s... I didn’t... He shouldn’t have told you that. He’s full of shit. Fuck.” Barton dropped his head into his hands, grumbling, “Fuck. Sir, I’m sorry. This is fucked up. He shouldn’t have said that.”

“Is it true?” Phil asked, so much more calmly than he felt. “Clint?”

Barton’s head snapped up, and he scowled. “Yes, okay? It’s true. I’ve got a crush on my boss. Now, do I need to ask for a transfer, or are we just gonna forget this ever happened?”

“I think that depends on how the rest of this conversation goes,” Phil said, and Barton groaned.

“Really? I was hoping we were done so I could go die of embarrassment in peace.”

“Will it make you feel better to know that what I have to say is also embarrassing?” Phil offered. “Well, potentially embarrassing. Historically, reactions have been varied. I’m hoping you’ll at least have the decency not to make fun of me.”

Barton gave him a thoughtful look. “Is it crossdressing?” he asked. “Or women’s underwear or something like that? Because that’s totally cool.”

“No. No, it’s nothing like that,” Phil said, shaking his head.

“Are you trans?”

“I... no.”

“Intersexed?”

“No.”

“Are you, like, super kinky?”

“Barton.”

“What? Some people get weird about that stuff.” Barton leaned forward, catching Phil’s eye. “Hey, whatever it is, we’re good, okay? So just fucking tell me and put me out of my misery.”

Phil took a deep breath and suddenly found himself at a loss for where to start. Baring any better alternatives, he said the thing that seemed most pertinent, which was, unfortunately, “I don’t want to have sex with you.”

A series of complex expressions crossed Barton’s face, and he replied flatly, “Congratulations on your good taste.”

“That’s not what I meant. Or it is what I meant, but it’s not...” Phil closed his eyes and tried again. “I like you, and I respect you. I care about you. Very much. And I enjoy spending time with you. But...”

“But you don’t like like me. I get it. It’s fine.” Phil opened his eyes in time to catch the flash of dejection as Barton shrugged. “You don’t have to explain. It’s not like I expected anything.”

Phil sighed and went on, “ _But_ it’s difficult for me to form romantic attachments. Not because of the job or some kind of trauma; it just... is. And I don’t want to have sex with you because I don’t want to have sex with anyone. Ever.” He paused. “Okay, maybe not ever, but very rarely.”

Barton stared at him in silence, and Phil’s heart pounded. Logically, he knew that Barton wouldn’t mock or reject him, knew the carefully concealed depths of Barton’s decency and compassion, but there was a part of him that was forever waiting to be thrown out into the snow.

“So I have, like, a shit ton of questions,” Barton said, at last. “But, first, I wanna know if you’re telling me this to explain why you don’t wanna get with me or because you think it’ll make me not wanna be with you.”

Phil blinked. “I...”

“‘Cause I’m not really hearing an actual rejection in any of this, and you said it was hard for you to get romantic, not impossible,” Barton said. “So, if you tell me, honestly, that I’ve got a chance with you, I’m gonna take it.”

Of all the thousand things that came to the front of Phil’s mind at that moment, the one that came out of his mouth was, “But _why_?”

Barton gave him a look like he thought Phil might be a little brain damaged, then he shook his head. “Y’know what, I’m due for another miracle pill and a nap, so I’m gonna skip the list detailing how great you are and say _because I fucking want to_. Okay?”

“Oh. Okay.” None of this had gone in any way like Phil had expected, and he felt like his mind was stuck at some point in yesterday afternoon. “Just so we’re clear,” he said, for his own benefit as much as Barton’s. “You’re saying that you still want... this, me, something, even if it means an emotional obstacle course and no sex?”

“Coulson, I’m in love with you, not your penis.” Barton’s eyes widened. “Shit. Did I really just say that?” Phil nodded. “Shit. Okay. Well. There you go.”

“Right.”

They met each other’s eyes and held on in uncertain silence.

Abruptly, Barton asked, “Do you like kissing?”

“Yes,” Phil answered immediately. “It’s been a long time, but yes.”

“Okay, good.” Barton moved in slowly, giving Phil plenty of time to stop him or get away. For all that he had intended to wait patiently, Phil found himself leaning forward to meet Barton’s mouth halfway.

Barton kissed the same way he did everything else, with confidence and passion and a note of hopeful longing, and Phil melted into it gladly. It was deep and sweet and all the more intimate for containing nothing but the soft touch of lips and a brief scrape of teeth.

Phil tilted his head to find a new angle, and Barton drew back with a hiss of pain, putting a hand gingerly over his nose. “Ow! Shit.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I’m sorry.” Phil was halfway toward picking up his phone to call the medics, but Barton waved him down.

“Fine. It’s fine.” Barton gave him a wry smile. “Hope that didn’t put you off kissing, ‘cause... wow.”

“Wow,” Phil agreed. “And definitely not. At the moment, though, I think getting some sleep will do both of us a lot more good than making out.”

“Yeah, probably.” Barton stood and started straightening and organizing the piles of paperwork on Phil’s desk. “So how about we go back to your place, turn off our phones, and sleep for, like, a week.”

Something warm and bright sparked in Phil’s chest, and he smiled. “I think that’s an excellent idea, Agent Barton.”

Barton winked, and Phil was too charmed for it to be ridiculous. As they shuffled out of the office, Barton asked, “You do like cuddling, don’t you?”

Phil felt his face heat. “Yes. You know that.”

“Good,” Barton said, grinning. _ _“__ ‘Cause I’m gonna cuddle the shit out of you.”


	3. Epilogue

"They did _what_?"

Coulson looked like he could have killed someone with the force of his irritation. "They escaped protective custody. Both of them."

Clint ran a hand over his face. "Aw, Barney, no."

"We're still trying to figure out if that happened before or after eight million dollars disappeared from one of the accounts Tina had us investigating,” Coulson went on, passing the tablet to Clint. “And then there’s this.”

Clint skimmed through the document and looked up at Coulson in horror. “Son of a bitch.”

“Indeed.”

“She was the one who tipped them off? She got us fucking kidnapped?”

“She needed to have them and us running in circles so she could get away with the money,” Coulson said. “Not that she’s going to get very far. Tech is tracking the transfers, now. It shouldn’t be too long before we have a lead.”

Clint shook his head, sighing. “We got played. This whole thing was just so my idiot brother could pull off a score. God _dammit_.”

“Well, not the whole thing.” Coulson sank onto the couch beside Clint, pressing comfortably against him. “The information Tina gave us really will help take down her family’s organization, and I think... I think Barney’s scheming to get us together was sincere, if a little awkward.”

“Yeah, I guess his heart’s in the right place, but he’s still an asshole.” Clint gave Coulson a questioning glance. “We going after them?”

The look Coulson gave him in reply was warm and pensive, and this, _this_ , was what Clint wanted. “You know,” Coulson said, smiling. “Given the circumstances, I think we can afford to give them a head start.”

Clint couldn’t have agreed more.


End file.
